


A reluctant answer

by Iresolatio



Series: Checks and balances [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Blowjob-ish, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon, referenced flinthamilton, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26908369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iresolatio/pseuds/Iresolatio
Summary: As James Flint fishes through his latest haul of scavenged books he finds a nasty surprise. Gates is there to comfort him in the only way that Flint finds acceptable.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Hal Gates
Series: Checks and balances [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963375
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	A reluctant answer

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbetaed. It is the second part to A helping hand, but you don't have to have read it first, but it'll probably help.

Nassau still baked, but the air was moist and cool. It had started to turn as the last of the goods had been unloaded. Gates and De Groot had had a brief tussle about who was to stay behind, which the latter had won. Probably for the best, Gates didn’t have De Groot’s or Flint’s sailing prowess. His strengths lay elsewhere: people and problems solved. 

Gates was one of the last to be rowed ashore, and as he’d turned back toward the Walrus, he had seen the low shelf cloud come towards land, dark belly heavy with rain, thick white swirls above as it met the thin layer of ordinary cloud. The tropics threw up storms and squalls and one learned to adapt, and so he’d given his instructions to the skeleton crew left behind, echoing De Groot’s but louder. 

So here he was personally delivering the Captain’s scavenged books from the haul, knowing the crew mightn’t have the same care, and God help the man who let any of them perish due to carelessness. Maybe Flint and he could even shelter from the storm in the tavern together and pass the time, counted in measures of rum and numbers of hoary stories. 

There was nothing like the warmth of Flint’s attention when at ease, light eyes dark with mirth. Gates wanted that camaraderie more than anything - he had since their first meeting. Sometimes now, since the alleyway there was a little more in the way Flint looked at him, and Gates felt it in his gut, nay, lower. 

Gates rebalanced the chest. Christ. Flint had picked out a good heavy dozen this time. The wind had picked up, and flung grit into the air, and Gates had stop to blink and clear his eyes. There were small dust devils forming, kicking up more dirt and leaves. Flint would have to shelter in place here for the duration, as there was no time to retreat to the interior. 

Gates took the second step up to Flint’s beach cabin carefully. There was a soggy side… yes, there. He went to avoid it and in doing so felt his right knee give, but sideways. Knees had no business going sideways. Gates braced and redistributed the weight of the chest to his other side for the last couple of stairs and the few steps and up to Flint’s cabin. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of Flint. A fellow his age oughtn’t still be in the game, perhaps he’d listen to Hornigold soon, but knew in his heart that he wasn’t the sort to give it up. Not when there were prizes, and adventure, thrill and excitement and… him. Those times when Flint’s focus shifted to him in  _ that _ way, however briefly and left Gates sated but eager for more.

Gates looked up. Flint had paused with quill in hand, but he knew he’d seen the misstep. Gates smoothed his gait, went up the steps with seeming ease and ignored the sharp pain in his knee. He placed the chest on the table in front of Flint. Flint dipped the quill back into the ink pot, slapped blotting paper on the wet page in front of him and placed a smooth lump of sea glass on top to stop it all flying away. The wind had picked up. Flint got up immediately to look inside the chest, despite having selected the contents himself. Gates guessed it made a difference now the books were his.

Flint undid the clasp and opened the lid to examine the titles. He quickly sorted them into two piles and Gates felt Mrs Barlow’s shadow, one stack, he was sure, was hers. Flint and she were a pair in most ways, if not the obvious. Flint pulled the last book out of the chest, paused at the flyleaf, savoured the scent, Gates thought, then held the book almost a full arm’s length away from him to read the first page. Gates smiled at that unconscious gesture, middle aged bodies,  _ their _ aging bodies, and yes, failing sight. Gates guessed Flint would never take Hornigold’s soft option, sitting under a shade sail on dry land not whilst he had fire left and intent on fighting... whatever he was fighting. Gates hadn’t figured out what--

Gates recoiled as Flint let out an inhuman noise, startling if not loud, and dropped the book, which thumped onto the slats. The cover had come away and was gripped in Flint’s hand. Some soft kicked dog noises were coming out of Flint’s mouth, interspersed with gasps. He was crying, or something close to it.

Gates looked around and Flint, despite being distressed, saw him do it. Flint knelt, grabbed the book, inserted it into the detached binding before he shut himself inside the cabin. He was hidden away from Gates, façade ready to be fastened like the book with binding.

The cabin was little more than a shack, a place for odds and ends from the Walrus, and the last thing from soundproof, and if Flint were up to sensible thought he’d realise that. Gates could still hear him choked and awful. He was muffled a little but not much more. Gates guessed with the storm it wouldn’t matter, it was going to come down hard and loud. He didn’t have to go in, he could just leave Flint to it and nothing would come of it. Flint would prefer it, he suspected. 

Gates stared down at his lap, contemplating his belly. All this over a book?  _ Lettered men. _ He drew in a breath or three, got up, stretched, and shook his shoulders like a gentleman boxer before a fight, before he opened the door. It wasn’t locked, but he hadn’t expected it to be.

Flint was sat on a dusty rolled up rug, book in his hands, the cover discarded. Once he saw Gates he placed it carefully onto a deadeye stacked on top of a coil of rope, fingers gentle. His cheeks were wet, forehead red, but he looked better than those horrible noises had suggested. As Gates watched a cry rose and escaped Flint’s throat, anguished and entirely involuntary. It was a cycle: a gasp for breath, then noise, then repeat. It churned Gates’s stomach to hear it.

Gates opened his mouth but before he could bring about reality, Flint was swift in doing the opposite. He got up and stalked to him, same dangerous grace, even now wretched with grief. Gates stepped back, uncertain but unable to look away. Whilst he’d never seriously contemplated his end by Flint’s hand, he still… had.

Flint frowned and stopped in place an arms-width away. He gestured vaguely at Gates, at his nether regions and –  _ oh _ . It wouldn't be the first thing Gates thought of when distressed, but different strokes. Gates snorted involuntarily but still retreated another step, unsure.

Flint slowly dropped to his knees, and then shuffled so he was at Gates’s feet. He’d made himself smaller, vulnerable. He was still plagued by the involuntary half-caught gasped sobs. Gates looked down as Flint pushed his belt up over his wide belly, and Gates sucked his gut in in response. Flint unbuttoned Gates’s breeches, swift and practiced. Flint drew him out, still mostly soft, but hardening fast. Given his age it was a wonder it was, but Flint was something else, even in this state, mired in misery. 

Even people who didn’t go for men went for Flint. Gates had seen one Guthrie relative, a dashing Aunt Ada who he’d have sworn was firmly in love with her companion, who had made cow-eyes at him one evening for hours. Flint had noticed, but as usual had pretended not to because it suited him. They all fell for him like skittles. 

Gates knew he should stop Flint from doing this, but figured it was probably the only sort of comfort he would receive now. Or drink. He should stop this and cajole Flint outside, to shelter at the tavern, ply him with rum, not do this base thing in this exposed beachside shack, which was already starting to sway a little in the quickening breeze. It would be lucky to be standing tomorrow.

Flint fisted Gates’s length in a relaxed palm, getting used to the feel, before he gripped with intention, his breaths quieter, less desperate, as he soothed himself with the motion of Gates in his hand. Gates gasped as Flint varied the motion slightly, gentle twist, yes just so, and Flint glanced up, knowing. No few times had Gates imagined those circumstances in which Flint had gained his expertise. Like this on his knees? Like this, in charge? Many would dispute that because of what the man wanted but not Gates. No matter what act Flint would always lead.

Flint opened his mouth and held Gates’s cock there before doing what he’d done with his hands, a quick exploration, found his space, mapped, before he committed to action. Soft easy, a warm hold. Gates settled in to enjoy Flint’s mouth as before, but was surprised when Flint jerked away, and he heard that unhappy sound. Flint backed off and sat back on his heels, aware that he wasn’t able to do what he’d done before, suck Gates off and then bring himself off with his hand. Even now Gates could see the clever mind work, assess solutions and discard them. Gates knew he’d found one by the infinitesimal relaxation of the skin around his eyes. He knew his Captain.

Flint stepped away, rolled out the rug and sat down on it facing Gates. Flint unbuckled his boots, eyes fixed on Gates. Gates saw the white feet merge from stockings, so pale and vulnerable, then breeches and drawers. He only caught a brief glimpse of pale ginger hair before Flint hauled down his shirt to cover himself. Gates didn’t like where this was going. He didn’t mind mouth or hand but this was… more. He’d have been happy with Flint’s clever hand, thick knuckles, rough palms and tight grip if he was too teary for mouth. He never even wanted arse with whores. He liked soft wet cunt that’s all, anything else well, not as comfortable or as sweetly scented. 

Gates looked away when Flint opened his legs a little. This was looking to be something-- He wanted to be gone from here. Gates’s hand went to his breeches to firmly signal his intention. He didn't think Flint would be churlish if he were denied, nor was his post as quartermaster in jeopardy, he thought. He was elected by the men anyway, to keep Captain in check, and that started with himself. What had Flint said before? It was different, it was more than a helping hand. He didn’t think about the way he’d wanted more than that brief peek of ginger, a slightly darker colour than the thick fuzz on his legs. Gates eyes went to those legs involuntarily and saw with shock that Flint had one palm cupped to catch the stream of oil from a bottle. Obviously he hadn’t taken the point - Gates wasn’t interested.

“Captain--” Gates started, “I--”

Flint just stoppered the bottle with one finger from his slick hand, laid it aside, then used it to slick between his legs, eyes closed. 

“Come here, it’s not that. I know you don’t want my hole. It’s nice to spend between a person’s thighs, man or woman. You won’t notice the difference. Gates saw Flint’s slick hand disappear under his shirt, smoothly tug himself a few times, before he yanked down his shirt again to cover his cock. “You’ve made it clear, you don’t even have to see mine.” His mouth twisted to a pale smile and half way through it that choked cry broke as he remembered what originally had made him so upset.  _ A bloody book of all things. _

“Captain--” Gates tried again, still unable to find the words to get out of this whatever it was. There was force but he knew he could walk out of the cabin with no consequences. Well other than never being offered this or anything else like this ever again.

“You won’t know the difference,” repeated Flint. Gates’s hand undid his belt, pushed his breeches down and Flint immediately spread his legs wider, like a good whore, and used one hand to keep his cock covered with his shirt. 

Gates laid his belt aside and then crawled in between, trying to not be awkward with his breeches around his ankles. He ignored the sharp pain as his right knee bore his weight, distracted by Flint. Flint knew what he was doing so he found Gates's cock. He was pumped a few times in Flint’s hand and then grasped between Flint’s hot oiled thighs before they closed. Gates didn’t know what to do with his hands, he didn’t want to touch Flint so he pressed it into the carpet, which kept his chest and belly mostly away from Flint’s body, with only his cock held. 

He loved the sensation, hot and slick, enclosed. The oil was some sort of mint not feminine, and sort of reminded him of the  _ aqua mentha pip _ . he took for heartburn. More to the point it was nothing like arse, and it overwhelmed armpit too and the overall scent of man. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the point. Did Flint pull other men like Gates, not satisfied with those of his own kind? Did he have this oil ready for those times here? 

Flint gripped his legs together and Gates stopped thinking and started to thrust. He was riding Flint, by God. It was good and just what he wanted, nice and tight, uncomplicated. He kept at it and tried to avoid looking at Flint, but he couldn’t resist. He saw Flint’s eyes dilate as he looked up at Gates, as Gates continued to drive between his thighs. Flint’s lips parted a little at first, then opened wider as his breaths got faster, propelled with pleasure, distracted from the gasping distress of before. Gates thought mayhap he’d forgotten about it for the moment. Gates liked the look on Flint: warm and open, just as it had been in that filthy alleyway.

it wouldn’t be long at this rate. For Gates it started as a buzz, a vibration in his whole lower half, low at first, then faster in waves. He could feel it rise, and as a result quickened his pace. Flint clenched harder and pulled his arms up over his head and thrust his hips up. He wanted to meet Gates, not content to be passive. It also caused Flint’s shirt to rise up and reveal his hard thick red cock pointed to his belly, tip drooling fluid into the hairs there. Gates froze at the view, startled, but the contractions were small moving in his stomach and back, and a little up his chest, directly in response to seeing Flint’s arousal. He wanted to-- touch it so badly. Flint met his eyes and reached for his belt sash and carefully draped the fabric over himself, hiding his erection from Gates. Gates felt a little disappointed. 

“You don’t need to see it,” Flint said, eyes blank, “you don’t have to see it,” and smiled bleakly. “I know this is what it is.” Gates didn’t have words for what he was, what Flint was and what they were or yes, what this was. He just felt sad for his friend grasping for what little this was. He didn’t look at the thin material as it soaked through with Flint’s arousal, the wet patch spreading fast. 

He was wanted so much by Flint. Why didn’t Flint want those other men, more handsome men in Flint’s orbit? On the crew, other crews? Why Gates? Possibly because they were equals, mutual respect, something, friends. Or… Gates blinked. Or Flint was a gentleman and would never take advantage of younger men, or men in his crew, simply because of the power he held over them. Gates was old enough to know what he was doing, and _ knew _ he could say no, and even now Flint was shielding him from the worst of it. 

Gates thrust again, eyes now fixed on the cloth wadded at Flint’s hips. He realised it wasn’t as arousing with it covered. Nice as Flint’s heavy thighs were around him he wanted to see his cock. See the red flush and hardness and yes the dripping cream wetness streaking the orange fuzz on his belly. Oddly the red flesh from what he’d seen... was the same colour as the little button bared from its hood on his favorite whore - in New York of all places - massive bosom, English rose complexion, creamy thighs, long red hair in waves. 

Gates paused for a split second, and remembered when he’d first met Captain Flint had had long red curly hair and cream complexion unravaged by the tropics. It was a nice image though melding together then and now, her and him, easier to thrust, easier to let go of the weight on the heels of his hands to relax his stomach onto Flint’s body, chest meeting chest, safe that he wouldn’t directly touch that bit of Flint now, not with the sash.

At the last Flint let out a murmur of protest and half lowered his arms, to push him away before he stopped and raised them up again. To stop himself from touching Gates presumably. This was a half measure, all of it, ugly and mean but it seemed that Flint was used to it. Poor bastard. Gates rose up again, leant his weight on his wrists. He built up the rhythm again, smooth and even. Soon then, as he felt the oil was drying and getting tacky, and it wouldn’t be comfortable for either of them. The shivers were back in his lower half, pleasurable, but something about the angle made his back twinge. It was a toss up between that niggle and the smooth upswell of pleasure deeper and rising up his chest, accompanied by the squeezing in his balls. 

Gates continued thrusting and it was so good, Flint pushing upwards as counterpoint, the wad of material obvious across his lap. Flint’s jerks upwards were becoming pointed, no, just uncontrolled. He was carefully keeping his hands away. Flint’s jaw was clenched, tight with restraint, and definitely with want. Gates wanted to say he could jerk off, could remove the cloth, but it would show Flint that he wanted him and all of him and not … a helping hand or a slick grasp of thigh and that was more than Gates was willing to admit. So he continued thrusting knowing that it was going to be over soon, and they would draw a line underneath this as they had the alleyway behind the Guthrie’s tavern. 

As his strokes got more frantic he felt the contractions take over, a deeper feeling that he knew signaled the end. Becalmed, slight wind in the sails to racing his style of spending. “I uh--” said Gates signalling to Flint who just clenched his thighs harder together and that was what pushed Gates over the edge. He could have pushed him away, so presumably he wanted Gates’s emission there, and ... Gates let out a quiet gasp at the image … on his fur on the top of his thighs then slipping down the middle perhaps to catch on pale hairs around his vulnerable hole, maybe even dribble down the crack. Gates had to consciously stop himself to find out, scoop some of his emission and then slide and find where Flint’s body opened, to push in a smear of himself. Claiming he supposed. Thing was, Flint would let him, he knew. Gates slid out of Flint’s slick thighs and sat back down on his heels, spent and exhausted as after a fight, shaking and weak.

Flint had his eyes closed so Gates took this opportunity to stare. No cries now, just a little measure of ease, checks visibly tracked with salt, his beard a little damp, greasy hair coming out of the tie. Gates wondered as he always did, what Flint had done with other men, how he would have been with others. Maybe even the one who had broken his heart so thoroughly. 

Gates started dressing: buttons, breeches, sash, belt. He saw Flint slide his fingers under the covering cloth of his sash, and start slowly stroking himself, caught Gates’s eye, flinch slightly, then he rose, sat up, turned around and faced the opposite wall. Once out of view he cast aside the covering fabric. His arm moved rhythmically, but he was silent as ever, as the last time. It didn’t take long, he’d obviously got enough stimulation from Gates between his thighs. Gates felt a qualm, maybe two if he was being honest, both times he’d been the beneficiary of Flint’s prowess without having to reciprocate. He didn’t want to reciprocate now but his friend, his best friend was bleeding inside and he could tell, and he wasn’t sure if what he’d just done had made it better. 

Gates saw Flint wipe his hand and leavings on his sash, but he didn’t turn around. Gates guessed he was waiting for him to leave so he could compose himself and get dressed. Gates tightened his belt and slowly walked over to the broad back, slightly hunched. He knelt down beside his Captain and put one arm around. He didn’t have anything to say so he didn’t. Flint had both hands on his lap now and Gates suddenly knew what small thing he could do. He grasped the back of Flint’s right hand - the hand with which he’d beaten himself off - and brought it to his own face. He inhaled deeply, it smelled like Flint, ink and tar and come. He didn’t lick but rubbed Flint’s hand on his cheek and jowl and then let go. Flint let it rest there for a few moments still, before he ran his fingers the same way and then let go, shoulders visibly relaxing.

Flint’s hand then went to the book resting on the dead eye, traced the spine, the wad of pages jutting out. Gates pulled a face knowing that Flint couldn’t see him. 

This was risky but if he was going to go haring after his captain for the next little whilst he swung from daredevil to suicidal he was allowed the question again.

“Who was he?” asked Gates. 

Flint turned around mismatched eyes blank. A muscle twitched in his jaw and there were several moments of silence. Gates knew where every weapon rested in this cabin and was ready for it.

“Thomas,” said Flint, voice low.

“Thomas,” agreed Gates and left him to it. 

Nothing more to be done. It was lashing down, and he was thoroughly soaked before he got to the tavern. The storm went for a few hours, heavy rain, destructive winds, with even De Groot’s skills likely taxed with managing the effects of storm surge on the anchored Walrus, but he didn’t see Flint. 

Gates caught Bloxon as he came in, to ask him if he’d seen Flint. He'd told Gates that he'd seen the bastard ride out of town, yes with palms dumping branches in the wind, and bridle paths likely turned to sucking mud. Off to Mrs Barlow. Gates hoped she was able to help because he wasn’t going to forget those choking cries for a long time. The ghost of Thomas. Or was Thomas alive and Flint had just been spurned? Flint was too willing to accept leavings, so yes maybe so. 

He went for a slash and as he opened his breeches he caught the smell of mint. That had been better than he’d expected, and next time… he sighed and faced up to himself. He never one to pull the wool over his own eyes. He wanted it: more than hands or mouth or thighs. He wanted the bits that aroused his friend, the bits that made him come. Red and ginger, sharp and spicy. Gates had never been a lover to just take. 

He felt ashamed that he had. 

**Author's Note:**

> There's one more part probably.


End file.
